


The Manxome Foe

by sentimental_animals



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Illness, Strexcorp, bipolar Cecil, i can explain, jabberwocky references, the psych ward AU you didn't know you wanted, unreality, yes i am that pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentimental_animals/pseuds/sentimental_animals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't the first time Cecil's been admitted. This isn't even the worst episode he's had. </p><p>Something isn't right this time. But just needs to keep his head down, take his meds and do what he's told, and he'll be released soon. </p><p>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Uffish Thought

**Author's Note:**

> let me explain myself here.
> 
> At least six months ago I was toying with the idea of writing a sort of reversal of all those super tropey, ableist ~he's in a mental hospital~ Night Vale AUs, but it never quite came together. 
> 
> Then I was joking with a friend about how all those AUs got it wrong, because my therapists have always been more like Steve Carlsberg, not like Carlos: well-meaning, kind, and have no idea when to stop talking about things that are dangerous and forbidden. 
> 
> And it kind of snowballed from there. 
> 
> It's not so much an AU anymore as--well. I'm not sure what it is, and I wrote the damn thing.

Cecil was not his best self at the moment.

He was foggy, nauseated, disoriented; his eyes wanted to cross. And his teeth--there was definitely something wrong with his teeth. They fit right, or as properly as his teeth ever had. His jaw clicked the way it always did, and there was the overbite, but they felt--wrong. 

His tongue was a little numb. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes.

"Ah! There you are."

"I dislike you already." Cecil hadn't intended to say that out loud. And he usually could handle his tongue, keep it under control. He was a journalist for fuck's sake. Conservative use of language was the first and most important skill.

"Oh, that's okay," the voice said. Cecil squinted over the side of the bed. (This was definitely not his bed; for one thing, Carlos wasn't in it.) 

( _There's also a white coated stranger beside it, Cecil, that should be a pretty decent clue._ )

"We don't have to be friends," the voice went on, and then he laughed and Cecil closed his eyes again because _no_ , he was rejecting this reality. "I'm here to help, though. I'm Dr. Carlsberg--"

_Dr--??_

Cecil sat up, awkwardly, tried to force his eyes to focus. "No you're not," he said, somewhere between confused and downright insulted.

"Got the ID right here," he said cheerfully. He pointed to a lanyard, and the name was stitched into his coat too. _Dr. S. Carlsberg._

"No," Cecil said. It was easier to focus if he closed one eye, squinted out the corner of the other, although now he wasn't sure he wanted to see anyway. "No. No thank you."

 

The routine was familiar, even if it had been a few years. Blue scrubs that were several sizes too large, no shoelaces, no pencils. Those socks with the little grippy things on the bottom. A soap product that was supposed to be both shampoo and body wash and was, in fact, neither. 

Some things were new. Like mouth checks. 

"I've never had a problem with medication," he'd insisted. "Trust me, you only need to go rogue once."

But they didn't believe him. In general they were trying to poke holes in his story--his _memories_ , it wasn't some story he'd cooked up to cover his behavior or something. That stupid doctor consistently tried to trick him: "And when was the last time you used cocaine?" and the answer was _never_ , he had _never even tried--_ and the doctor still gave him that little _aww come on_ look, like Cecil was supposed to trust him, would say _oh okay, you've caught me_. 

Yes, he was on medication. Yes, he took it faithfully twice a day, got the blood tests as ordered, levels good, everything fine.

He'd been fine for ten years, damnit, you only need one manic catastrophe and then five years trying to repair your relationship with your sister before--

"For the last fucking time, look, my hands aren't shaking, and even if they were I would be in pretty bad fucking shape after two days if I drank that much, I don't, okay, I have already fucking told you--"

Carlsberg shrugged (Cecil refused to call him Doctor and they couldn't make him), and looked back down at his notes. "Okey-dokey," he said. "New questions. I think we're ready to tackle this stuff."

"If you ask me about my childhood, I'm signing myself out."

"Hmm, no, don't think you will!" That wasn't something someone should be able to say cheerfully.

"Ohh, I don't think you'll stop me!" Cecil said, mocking his tone.

"Well, ya see. I was hoping you'd remember by now, but. We can hold you for fourteen days."

"That sounds like bullshit." Cecil was smiling, but it wasn't a happy smile, it was tight and vicious. "See, you think I don't know my rights, but if you _listened_ when I _talked to you_ you'd know that this isn't my first--"

"Well, see. You're an involuntary admit. Came in in an ambulance, screaming your head off about some big company out to get you, you had to be sedated, so long story short we can hold you for two weeks no matter what you say."

"That's not--that's not good news, do you have to be so damn cheerful about it--"

"Aww, come on, brother, it's not so bad!" And the doctor clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder, and that was unusual because--

"You're not--supposed to touch me." Right? Wasn't that--?

The rules were fuzzy. And who would believe him, anyway? It was a pleasant friendly gesture directed at someone who had just been brought in on a stretcher screaming bloody murder.

It had been a long time since he'd had to care about stuff like that.

"Whoops, sorry," Carlsberg said cheerfully. "Anyway. What's the last thing you remember before we got you here?"

"I don't know--"

"Try. Think about it."

"I was--getting home from work? Probably? I was coming home. Carlos was probably cooking--he usually does, I'm not really any good at it, and uh. I don't know."

"Remember what you were feeling?"

Cecil blinked at him. "No. I do not. Probably feeling, like. Normal?"

"Normal is not a feeling, Cecil."

"Yes it is. It's what it feels like when you're not feeling anything too strongly, and it's _nice_ , it's _stable_ , it's moderate responses to things like normal people have, don't tell me how I feel--"

"If you knew how you felt you wouldn't be here, would you?"

"I think I'm done answering questions, thank you."

"That's your choice, of course, but--well. The less you cooperate, the longer you're here."

 

"Hey." A prod. "Hey."

It was dark, still, god only knew what time it was. Cecil rolled over, patted the bed for Carlos--

and hit the wall. Of course. Carlos was home alone in their great big bed. And Cecil was here being crazy.

"Wake _up_ ," the voice hissed. "No, don't sit up, just--give me your arm."

The puff-puff-puff and squeeze on his upper arm and--

"If you just wrecked it I'm getting you up at 4 tomorrow," she said.

Maureen. He didn't know how he knew her name, there were an awful lot of nurses and residents and all kinds of people in scrubs floating around here. 

"Gotta make my job difficult," she said under her breath. "Every freakin' day."

He wanted to point out that he'd only been here for three days, couldn't really remember much of the first one, although if that stupid doctor was right they probably weren't able to get a resting BP out of him at that point.

But then she was gone, and he was asleep again.

 

"What is this again?"

"Your meds." The nurse looked tired, a little overwhelmed, almost apologetic. 

"Yeah but, what is it? What's the dose?" Cecil looked at the two innocent little white tablets in his cup. It didn't look like the his usual medication. The--the--

What was it called again?

Maybe it _was_ what he usually took. He tried to remember--wake up, coffee, toast, pill--

just one. Twice a day. Regular as clockwork.

So maybe they'd just upped the dose? 

"I'm--I'm sorry," she said. "I'll see what I can do. Ask around."

She turned toward the empty bed, noticed it was empty, shook her head fast, and pushed her little cart out of the room.

She hadn't watched him take pills this time.

He thought of hiding them for a second, or flushing them, presenting them to the doctor in a triumphant _a-ha!_ that might finally get some answers out of him. 

He dumped them into his hand, turned them over looking for markings.

_Look how paranoid you are,_ he thought. _That's why you're here._

He took the pills.

 

"I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong here."

"You don't have to whisper, sweetie, it's okay--we're alone in here. No one is listening." Carlos smiled. "Do you--do think someone is listening? Or--"

"No I don't think--I'm fine, Carlos. I'm stable now. Jesus."

"Oh, of course, I know." There was a bit more nervous tension in his smile. "You gave me a little bit of a scare, there, sweetheart. But I'm glad you're safe. I'm glad you're doing better, and--"

"Yeah, okay, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for anything to happen, and I'm sorry for--for whatever I--what did I do, anyway?”

"What did you--uh. You went off your meds, and things got kind of messy there, and you thought that I, uh, was poisoning you? Or something, and--"

"You know what, never mind, I don't want to know." His stomach twisted over. How could he distrust Carlos, of all people, how could he--

He didn't remember being suspicious of Carlos. Something like that would be a slow build, bits of doubt here and there, intrusive concerns that seemed to hold more weight than the usual irrational flashes.

Kind of like how he felt about this place.

"It doesn't matter," Carlos said. "You're okay now, and you're safe, and you didn't do anything dangerous. And you'll be home soon, and we'll be together again. I give it three more days, maybe four, just to make sure your blood work is okay."

Three days. Carlos would know, wouldn't he? He was a scientist. 'Course he wasn't a doctor, but science was science, right?

Cecil looked around the blue walls of his room, at the empty bed on the other side of the--

"Why are we in here?" he said. "You can't get visitors in your room, not in these kind of wards."

"What?"

"How did we get in here?"

"Guess we snuck past the nurse's station?" Carlos shrugged and grinned. "It's okay, I'll get in trouble for this, not you. Blame it all on me, Ceec."

 

"How are we all today?"

The groups were pointless. They were probably just meant to keep people out of trouble, get them out of their rooms. Today we're going to talk about our feelings, today we're going to pick a word and draw a picture and the rest of the group has to guess what it was. Sam ruled the craft group with an iron fist, checked your pocket when you left for stolen yarn or colored pencils. Some forgettable old woman kept disrupting the resident in charge of the goal-setting group, but no one could really hear her; Cecil often found himself telling everyone what she'd said. 

Cecil went to them anyway, 'cause you had to, had to show you were trying or something. He kept getting in trouble for swearing. 

"First we're going to go around the room, and I tell everyone what we're feeling right now."

Cecil didn't hear the responses. He was counting the people in the room--but the number didn't seem to be consistent. They were in a rough circle, kind of, at a table that rocked when you leaned on it.

"--are you alright? Cecil?"

"What? Yeah. Sorry." He squinted at the doctor or resident or whoever he was. Probably not the short one.

"How do you feel today?" This doctor-person had that air about him, like he was always struggling not to refer to the group as "girls and boys". Maybe he’d missed his calling, secretly yearned to be a kindergarten teacher but couldn't bear to waste eight years of medical school.

He shrugged. "Normal?"

"Hmm. Is that a feeling?" 

"Oh for fuck's sake--"

"Language, please." Like he was seconds from telling Cecil to go sit in the corner until he was ready to say he was sorry.

The group went on around him. People talked about their feelings, responded to each other's feelings, but if it had a destination they didn't seem to reach it. Cecil looked around the room discreetly and counted again, and again. Someone started to cry; without thinking he leaned his chair back and pulled a section of coarse brown paper towel off a roll and handed it to them. If you had asked him later he couldn't have told you who it was.

 

"Missed breakfast this morning, didn't you?" Carlsberg said cheerfully. He was the kind of person who--yep there it was, pulled a chair around and sat on it backwards, leaning his crossed arms over the back like they were friends who worked together or something. "Where were you, buddy?"

Cecil ignored the term of endearment. He crossed his arms and leaned as far away from him as the chair would allow. "If I have to eat one more hard boiled egg I'm going to lay one." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I've been good. I've taken all my meds, and I go to the groups and talk to people and yesterday I played fu--I played table tennis. When do I get out of here?"

"Regular meals are important for--"

"Christ, really? That's enough to keep me here?"

"Not on its own. But we are concerned about you. You're a little paranoid, don't you think? We see you, you know." His voice seemed to change, and all the dopey goodwill dropped out of his smile; it became something small and dark. "We see you counting patients, how you wonder if they're really there. How long have you been skipping your meds?"

"What--I'm not--they watch me, they check, like _one time_ someone didn't and I took them anyway. You're certainly drawing enough blood! Can't you tell?"

"Huh?" Carlsberg blinked and he looked like his old dopey self again, something Cecil didn't think he'd ever be relieved to see. "I know, Cecil, I trust you. Say," he added, "How long have you been worried about that? That I don't believe you're cooperating?" He sounded like he'd just thought of it, like it was unrelated to the previous conversation. 

 

He had to keep the door open, and Maureen stood behind him the whole time, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else but there. To be fair, Maureen always seemed to look like she'd rather be somewhere else. She leaned against the open door and crossed her arms and said, "Go for it, man."

It felt like ages since he'd shaved. But he'd proved himself responsible enough for it, as long as he had an appropriate adult to make sure he was safe with the sharp thing. 

_Levels of care_ , he reminded himself. He did not currently need someone to watch him shave. But they couldn't know that. He might just be doing a very good imitation of someone who could be trusted with a razor; some other patients clearly were not ready to be alone with sharp objects, and it was just safer to assume everyone was on the same wavelength. Everyone was watched while they took their meds. Every one who shaved their face had direct supervision. Every half hour, every night, the nurses looked into every single room, and no one could close their door at night without someone peeking in and everyone got the same treatment, even if it was more than you needed.

Cecil turned to the mirror, steeling himself for the worst; he was exhausted, because he never slept well without Carlos, not now he'd gotten used to him there, and he hadn't shaved in--how long had he even been here? And also--

He paused. Stared ahead. 

His reflection was all wrong. He touched his chin--stubbly to the point of scraggly, probably, but in the mirror his face was smooth. And still, too. Static, like a photograph.

"Are you gonna shave or what?"

He couldn’t tell her or he’d never get out of here. He did a pretty good job at shaving, considering he couldn't see himself at all. 

 

"Hi." He smiled, leaned on the smooth blue counter of the nurses' station. "So listen. Um." He looked at her name tag. "Ms. Cardinal. We talked the other day about my meds, and I wondering if you'd found anything out? Do you remember that?"

"Hi, Cecil," she said, and she almost sounded guilty. She looked towards the white board where the shift assignments were posted. At least Cecil assumed that's what it was, it had nurses and doctors listed on it. "Um. Sorry. I couldn't talk to--"

"Is there paperwork? A chart or something? You've got to have something back there."

"No, I'm really sorry, I--"

"Oh." Well, he'd hoped he could trust her. She'd seemed nice, and understanding, and she didn't make him open his mouth and move his tongue around to make sure he'd swallowed the damn things. Guess he was wrong about that, then.

Guess he couldn't trust anyone around here.

"Is there anyone who can tell me what I'm on? Where's that doctor? He's prescribing it, he has to know."

"Cecil, I can't--"

"How is it he always turns up when I don't want to talk, insists we talk about dangerous and uncomfortable things but when I have a question he's nowhere to be seen--"

"I need you to calm down, okay--"

"I'm perfectly calm," Cecil said. And it was true. His voice was steady, if tense, and he wasn't shouting. "I just think I have a right to know what I'm taking." He leaned on the counter again and whispered. "Please. Just think about it. Two white tablets in the morning, at night the two white pills and a little pink capsule. I'll still take them. I just want to know--"

"Is everything alright?"

"There you are." Cecil hadn't thought he'd ever be relieved to see Carlsberg. "I just want to know what meds I’m on right now."

"Calm down, please, Cecil, everything is okay--"

"I know it's okay. I'm fine, I'm calm. I just. You have to tell me what I'm taking. I'll still take it. No problem, I've been compliant since I got in. But I need to know what I'm taking. I can't remember what I was on before, but I want to know, please just--"

There was a smug looking woman behind him, and she offered him a little smile. "Now Cecil," she said, "we'd hate to have to go over your head on this. Just settle down."

"I'm perfectly settled, I just--don't touch me--"

"Well, it doesn't matter what you're on, does it?" Her smile looked oddly sharp. That was a metaphor of course, her teeth were perfectly normal, and sure her smile was a little wider now, wider than he would have assumed possible on that face, but he just meant that it looked a little vicious, a little aggressive. "It's not working. Your paranoia is getting worse, isn't it?"

"That's not what I'm here for. Look, I'm bipolar, I've been dealing with it for a while, this is just a little hiccup but I'm taking the medication, I'm doing well, Dr. Carlsberg said--" Cecil looked around. Where was he, now? He was just here. Wasn’t he?

"We're changing your diagnosis." She shook her head in a parody of sadness. "Clearly whoever thought you were bipolar was so, so wrong." She smiled again. "You're clinically insane. What a pity."

"That's not a diagnosis!" Cecil was shaking now, with anger and confusion and _hurt_ , and this was all wrong, and it wasn't _fair_. "Insane isn't a clinical term, it's a legal one, and it's archaic anyway, don't you tell me--"

"Hysteria too, it looks like. This is hysteria, wouldn't you agree, Nurse Cardinal?"

"Hysteria? Okay, I get it, joke's on me, stop asking questions." Deescalate the situation. Smile and nod and get the hell out of here. He was a journalist, after all, two well-worded articles and he could break this place wide open, but only if he got out in one piece. "It's over now. I'll go back to my room, or--or to the common room, it's almost lunch time, isn't it? Yeah, I'll just go about my day--we can all just carry on now, right?"

"I don't think so." She sounded regretful, but she was still smiling. Cecil looked discreetly for her name tag. He was definitely gonna name and shame Dr Mallard when he was released. "You're causing a disruption, Cecil. Look at all all the distress. Look at poor Carlos."

"Carlos?" For a moment he did regret it, because it really was unfair for Carlos to see him like this, insane and hysterical in a hospital hallway--

What was Carlos doing there? "How--it isn't visiting hours--" was it? He looked for a clock. "But time's not real, is it?" he muttered, but still he looked. The clock at the nurses' station seemed to be running backwards. "This isn't real, is it? None of this is."

"Oh, you're worse than I thought. Now he thinks time isn't real, do you hear that? Tell him, Carlos. _Correct_ him. You're a scientist, after all."

Carlos looked concerned and hopelessly confused. "I--I'm not a chronologist, I'm a scientist--"

"But this isn't real. This is--listen, I know my rights, and you wouldn't dare do this--let go of me--don't you dare, this is wrong--"

"Let's get him somewhere quiet before the shock therapy, hmm? What do you think?" She grinned her sharp grin and maybe it was her teeth, they seemed to be all canines. "We've got a nice little padded room just for you, Cecil, a nice safe place.”

"That's not how ECT works, okay, I know these things, I've researched these things, you can't just--let _go_ of me--this isn't real, this isn't--this can't be real, let me go, let me _go_ \--!"


	2. The Frumious Bandersnatch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> references to a suicide attempt in this one, pretty vague but still there.

"Get up--hey, don't sit up this time."

Cecil knew the drill by now. He did not pat the blankets for Carlos. He knew he wouldn't be there. He didn't sit up. He stuck his arm over the side of the bed. Puff-puff-puff squeeze, and then the sharp pain of the blood draw.

She didn't say anything--didn't thank him for cooperating or wish him goodnight. Maureen was like that.

It was always Maureen.

How many days? 

Now he sat up, looked around. Same room, with the blinds you couldn't open, same hospital blanket, same grey socks with the grips on the bottom. Same roommate--

_Roommate?_

Someone was sleeping in the other bed. 

He was 97 percent sure he hadn't had a roommate when he'd gone to bed. Someone must have come in during the night. Whatever was in that little pink capsule knocked him out flat, but he would have noticed someone being moved in, right?

 

Well at least he was a newcomer, so it wasn't like Cecil forgot a whole roommate. He'd been having odd dreams lately, but Dr Mallard assured him it was a side effect of the new medication, and Dr Carlsberg smiled a lot and was very busy with paperwork but assured Cecil he agreed.

Kevin smiled a lot too. When Cecil sat heavily on the bed and said, "so, what are you in for?"--a standard, if forward, conversation starter here--Kevin just smiled and said, "oh, you know. The usual."

As far as Cecil knew, there was no usual way to end up in this ward. 

Finally he said, "Overdose, silly." And smiled, and Cecil wondered what the hell they were giving him. He got meds three times a day and liked a packet of oatmeal cookies with his night pills. 

"I was so sad," he said finally, although he didn't look like he fully understood what sadness was. "So sad and unproductive. And then I started to feel better and I thought, hey, finally I have energy! But I was still so sad, and I used that energy _way_ wrong." He laughed his long and shivery little laugh. "But I'm getting better now! Stable. It's all down to Dr Mallard. Aren't you glad she's your primary psychiatrist now?"

"Uh--"

"Of course you are!"

 

"How are things?" Carlos sounded uncomfortable. Almost like he didn't know who he was talking to. Which was weird--they'd shared a home and a life and a bed, for god's sake, it had been--

How long had it been?

"Fine, I guess." He smiled and reached across the table for Carlos' hand. "New roommate's kind of a weirdo. God, whatever they're giving him, they should give everyone, I mean it's--" He stopped. _Of course!_ He snapped his fingers. "Depakote," he said definitively.

"Huh?"

" _That's_ what I was on before. Before I was in here. Depakote, twice a day, with breakfast and a snack before bed. I don't remember how much, but--that was it. See?"

Carlos apparently did not see.

"That's real, Carlos! That's _solid_ , I was definitely on that medication for, like, a _while_. And it was helping, right, I was very normal on it, right Carlos?"

"Cecil, honey. All of this is real."

"Well, yeah, but I mean. That was--I couldn't remember, before, but I remember now, that has to mean something good, right?"

Carlos looked weary. "Cecil. Please. I want you to be well, I want you to come home. And none of that can happen if you don't--calm down. Stop worrying about what's outside of here, before and after, and just focus on getting well. Stable. So we can be together. I love you very much, but I can't--I need you to work with the doctors, okay?" 

This wasn't Carlos. Carlos would understand--he didn't look like--

No. Of course it was Carlos. It wasn't _like_ Carlos, in the sense that this was not how Carlos usually behaved--

_Maybe he's just tired of your bullshit. He didn't sign up for a crazy boyfriend. You need to get it together or he won't be waiting for you when you get out._

_This is Carlos, this is **my** Carlos, the Carlos I love, **my Carlos** \--_

and something shifted--

Carlos leaned close across the table and he was smiling, a Carlos smile, small and almost shy but with that underlying hint of wanting, not just sexual but universal desire, wanting all of Cecil, even the confusing and frightening parts. He gestured Cecil closer.

Cecil glanced around the room. The nurses and resident types were talking among themselves or interacting with other patients. You weren't supposed to openly display affection, and it wasn't uniformly enforced but if anyone saw Carlos kiss him they'd probably be broken up right quick. 

He leaned forward. What the hell. This was his Carlos again, there was hope, Carlos might still love him--

Carlos leaned forward and smiled and pressed the littlest kiss to the corner of Cecil's lips, like he always did, the first kiss was always a little one. And then he whispered, "Run."

The whole room went dead silent. Carlos pulled back again and his smile had gone stale. "I gotta get out of here. Long day's science to do. You understand."

"Carlos--wait, what did you--"

"Visiting hours are over!" Maureen clapped her hands twice. "Come on, out with you--"

"Carlos--Carlos, wait--"

"Oh, of course it's you," Maureen said. "C'mon, let your boyfriend go home. You don't want to cause another scene."

"What--no, that wasn't--"

"Yeah, I know it was a dream, whatever, just let him go home and we can all get on with our day, okay?"

"You weren't even there. When it happened. In the dream, I mean."

She rolled her eyes and popped her gum. "Yeah. Okay. I missed the dream party. Whatever. Stop throwing your little hissyfit or I'll call the doc."

 

"Alrighty, let's talk business." 

Cecil never thought he'd actually be happy to hear Dr Carlsberg. Even if he always wanted to poke old bruises, talk about things Cecil had a handle on as long as he never let himself think about it as more than a flash. Inconvenient at best, downright dangerous at worst. "Has anyone been reading your thoughts?"

"No."

"Stealing them?"

"Nope." 

"Do you see or hear things other people don't?"

"Nope."

"Are you getting special messages, like on the TV in the dayroom or on your lunch tray or--?"

"Uh." Cecil swallowed. His eyes flicked to Carlsberg, over at Kevin (who was only pretending to read now, he was definitely listening), then down at his own crossed legs. "No."

"Okay, that's great." He chuckled. "Can we have a moment, Kevin?"

"Hmm?" he looked up from his book, trying to act like he hadn't heard everything they'd said.

"I was wondering if you'd give us a minute alone, to talk. HIPPA thing, you understand."

"Oh, but I'm just in the middle of--"

"Would you please wait outside for a few minutes." It was structured like a question, but it didn't sound like one, and his teeth were gritted tight. He pointed to the door.

Kevin smiled blandly. "Fine," he said. He snapped his book shut, stood up and walked to the door. "Just let me know when--"

"Out, please." 

Cecil couldn't help but respect him for it. Maybe he wasn't as dumb as he seemed. When the door was shut, he said, "So that was a pretty waffley answer there, on the last question."

"Hmm? Oh, no, it was just--I could tell Kevin was listening. And no one seems to ask him those questions, it's kind of embarrassing to be the crazy person in the room, you know?"

"Oh, you're not crazy, Cecil." His smile was probably supposed to be reassuring. It was just ridiculous.

"Clinically insane, remember?" He was hoping Carlsberg would remember. It was a dream. Of course it was a dream. The new meds--that pink one, probably--was giving him weird dreams, it happened. He'd tried melatonin once, long ago, before he even knew something was off in his brain chemistry, and everyone said he'd adapt to it but he couldn't wait through it, couldn't deal with the weird, vivid dreams. He had enough unsettling thoughts without seeing them all night.

"Cecil. That's not a diagnosis. Who told you that?"

Cecil coughed. "Just something I. Overheard. It's nothing."

Carlsberg was frowning. "Listen. Whatever message you're getting. You should tell me. So I can help you."

"There isn't one. It's fine. Whatever--whatever brought me in here, it's okay now, I'm really in touch with reality. Really, I mean it."

"You should tell me." Carlsberg was just whispering now. "So I can. Help you."

"What the hell are you going to do, _Steve Carlsberg?_ " Cecil snapped, and then he slapped a hand over his mouth. That was rude. That was really, really rude and he was absolutely going to report that to Dr Mallard and she would absolutely hold it against him and he was _fucked_ now.

Carlsberg blinked, looked away, then looked back and smiled that same old _aww come on now_ smile. "You sure?" 

"Absolutely," Cecil said. "No special messages for me."

 

"...and that's when I realized that I had a perfectly good reason to keep going--my job is _great_ , the benefits are just super and everyone is really nice, mostly, and even if Lauren can be kind of _pushy_ and _irritating_ and is maybe the human equivalent of a fork scraping on a plate, well, no one lives forever, right?"

"Mmm-hmm." _Run._ Run where, Carlos? 

"I can just wait it out, right? She has to die eventually. I'm sure I could help."

He couldn't have meant literally. Carlos had been so encouraging, so certain that this treatment would work. Was he encouraging him to get well faster?

That wasn't exactly in his control, though.

"What about you?" 

"What?"

Kevin was watching him expectantly. All wide eyes and wider smile. He hadn't shut up since they'd woken up.

"I'd love a cup of coffee. _Real_. Coffee."

Kevin sighed. "Yeah, that would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Those sanka packets just aren't the same. Once Carlos--" Hmm. Better not finish that thought; for some reason he didn't trust Kevin, and didn't want anyone to know that Carlos had shared sips of his coffee when no one was looking. "Anyway."

"That's it, though? That's all you miss? All you're looking forward to?"

"Well--my cat." Cecil swallowed. He wasn't exactly Cecil's cat, of course, not really. He was the station cat. But he was his, in the same way the station was his. A second home, over the years often safer than the first. "No one ever remembers when he's due for flea treatment, I'm the only one. It should have been yesterday, but I was here. What if he gets fleas? He won't understand, I can't tell him _daddy had to go away because his brain doesn't work_ , he'll just think I forgot him."

 _What station?_ Cecil worked for--he was a journalist, he worked at a desk, writing---something. Not at a station.

Writing what?

_Worse than you thought, aren't you?_

"Hmm. Coffee and a cat." Kevin seemed unmoved by his distress. "No wonder you're so sad."

Cecil stared at him for a second. "I didn't end up here because I was _sad_."

Kevin stared back, his smile slipping for just a moment. "How can you be _too happy_?

"You. You do realize that there are more than two emotion states, right?"

"Oh!" Kevin jumped a bit. "Of course! Don't know what I was thinking."

"I don't either," Cecil mumbled.

 

A tiny bagel wrapped in cellophane, a packet of margarine, a hard boiled egg. A plastic cup of--yes, as always--cranberry juice. Perhaps Cecil had wandered into an acute time loop, a standardized infinite breakfast. 

He poked the bagel wrapper with his plastic spork. 

Kevin grinned at him from across the table. "Think I'll be getting out of here soon," he said. "Doctor Mallard said she's just _so pleased_ with the progress I'm making--"

If there was anyone who was not ready to go home, it was Kevin. He was so far beyond mere optimism that he came out the other side. That smile was not healthy, it was chemically induced. No one was that chipper all the time. 

_You can't read his mind. Or can you? Delusions of grandeur now Cecil? Someone’s still manic._

"I bet you could be out soon too, Cecil. If you just. Work a little harder."

"How much harder, exactly?" Cecil's hand tightened around the plastic handle. These were supposed to be unbreakable; in the back of his mind he thought _we're about to find out_. "I do everything I'm supposed to. There is literally nothing else I can do--"

"Adjust your attitude. I bet Carlos would appreciate that, too. He loves you, of course, he'll come back to you! But wouldn't that just be so much easier--so much _nicer_ \--if you were more agreeable? Made an effort? Just try, Cecil. Close your eyes and open your hands, and smile."

It couldn't be that easy,

_what if it was_

nothing was;

_the worst that can happen is it doesn't work_

he'd tried that, he'd tried everything. He didn't have a problem with his attitude, you can't just smile away a--

_but **did** you try? Did you really try? or did you just assume you were too special, blame it all on being sick? So fucking special, aren't you, gotta make a lot of noise and be difficult._

He opened his hands. The spoon fell against the wrapped bagel in a muted crinkle. He'd dug half-moons into his palms, red and angry. Why were they so red?

_Why so angry, Cecil? What's it doing for you? Do you really want to keep something so terrible, just because it's yours?_

"You can do this. There's no halfway, Cecil, you're with us or against us. Just smile. It'll be okay. You'll feel so, so much better."

_Do you even want to feel better? Do you want Carlos to leave you so you can be miserable again, so you don't have to take care of yourself? Have the luxury of spiraling again? Pathetic._

"Do you want to hear a secret, Cecil?"

He did not. 

_Of course you don't, you know everything, you've seen it all, haven't you?_

"Do you know what the placebo effect is?" Kevin leaned closer, smiling wide, like a predatory gopher. "There's nothing in the pink capsule. Now close your eyes, and go to sleep."

Cecil smiled, crookedly, a half smile, and looked away from Kevin's cartoonish grin, or perhaps it was a grimace. Maybe he was in pain after all.

"Come on now," Kevin said, like he was talking to a very small child. "Close your eyes. On the count of three, okay? One--"

_Don't you want to make it easier for them? For Carlos? Do you think he won't get tired of you?_

"--two--"

_Abby can hardly look at you. Do you think she wants Janice around you, sick as you are? What if you break again?_

"--three."

Cecil stared at Kevin's fixed smile, hardly daring to blink.


	3. Snicker-Snack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought the last chapter was getting surreal >.>
> 
> (also a warning for incidental eye horror.)

A tiny bagel wrapped in cellophane, a packet of margarine, a hard boiled egg. A plastic cup of--yes, as always--cranberry juice. Perhaps Cecil had wandered into an acute time loop, a standardized infinite breakfast. 

There were little red crescents on his palms. No one was on the other side of the table. He had to get home. He had to keep talking. Silence was dangerous in Night Vale and that was his job, he was the witness, the record--does a place even exist if no one is talking about it?

He had to go home.

He had to keep--

 

A tiny bagel wrapped in cellophane, a pat of butter, a hard boiled egg. A plastic cup of--yes, as always--orange juice. Perhaps Cecil had wandered into an acute time loop, a standardized infinite breakfast. 

"Bet I can beat you to the end of the hall." Abby, ten years old, arms crossed, sticking out her tongue. "Last one there's a--"

 

A tiny bagel made out of styrofoam, a yellow Lego brick, a plastic easter egg. A plastic cup of--yes, as always--blood red paint. Perhaps Cecil had wandered into an acute time loop, a standardized drug-induced hallucination. 

Lauren Mallard, elbow resting on her crossed arm, a cigarette in her hand. "If you're finished with your little temper tantrum?"

"You're not a doctor," Cecil said. "And you're really shit at faking it. Hysteria? Seriously?"

"I can keep rooting around in here, Cecil. And who knows what I'll find. You have a lot more memories than I'd expected, which just makes a bigger sandbox for me to play in. Do you remember Marconi? Would you like to keep remembering him?" She tilted her head, flicked ash off her cigarette. Cecil watched it disappear before it hit the floor.

"Would you like to keep remembering it _nicely_?" 

He wanted to put out her cigarette. Shouldn't smoke in a hospital. Not that it was a real hospital. Or a real cigarette. But it was his mind, and maybe he still had some control over it.

"I could twist it up. Tear pieces of it out. Change it. Didn't he break your poor little heart? He could. If I wanted him to. I could make it worse, too. Oh. A lot worse. Don't underestimate my ability to make things worse."

"I never have." This was an odd kind of serenity. He wanted to scream and fight and fuss, but what was the point? None of this was real. He sat still and straight as a puppet, strings tight, waiting to be moved.

"Defiant to the last. I like that. Or at least I would if it was well directed." She thought, sucked on the end of her cigarette. Cecil stared at the little ember, imagined the /tsst/ sound it would make if, say, a big fat raindrop fell out of the ceiling and landed on it. "No, I still wouldn't like it. Defiance isn't profitable, it can't be controlled, and it always wastes time. If you could just work with me--"

Cecil felt himself half smiling again, genuinely. "Couldn't you work someone else over, instead of wasting your precious time?"

"I have all the time in the world, Cecil. I'm not really here. Kevin isn't really here. If you'd have stabbed him in the throat with that little spork there I would have just started breakfast over again. I know you thought about it. I saw it just pop into your mind. Does Carlos know about your violent tendencies?”

“It isn’t like that--”

“At least that would have been entertaining, instead of hearing you backchat your perfect self like you know better, imperfect and sick thing you are. _You_ might start thinking about time, though. Night Vale has been voiceless for a long time, and you know what happens when someone stops speaking your name, don't you, old devil?"

"Carlos will figure something out, until I'm--"

"Carlos is currently in a well-stocked Strex sponsored laboratory and happy as a pig in shit. We gave him the key and he was like, ‘pssht, Cecil who?’” Lauren's voice dropped low, mockingly sultry. "He's got all the blinking lights and bubbling flasks his little heart could desire.”

"That's not true." Don't crack. He thought about her cigarette. The stale smell of burnt tobacco when a lit smoke had been crushed out, willed himself to smell it.

"Why do you think we've been simulating Kevin? All we've got to work with are your memories of him, he’s not really here. He makes a very enthusiastic laboratory assistant."

"No." Cecil shook his head. "See, if that were true--if you had access to Carlos, easy access, you could make a _better_ Carlos. The best you did was when he told me to--"

"--run?" She smiled. "We're working with your memories, remember? You always want Carlos to solve your problems for you, to fix it with science. That's the best we've been able to make him because that's the only thing you want from him--"

"Liar!"

"--isn't it? 'Fix it, Carlos'," she whimpered. "'Save the day, save my stupid town, we haven't been able to save ourselves since 1983. Fix it, oh Great and Powerful Oz! Fix me, the little scarecrow with the broken brain full of awful thoughts, the tin man with a dark and inconstant and _ancient_ heart, a cowardly lion hiding behind a microphone.'"

She smiled through the smoke, waited for him to react. He swallowed his rage and his hurt 

_she's right, you know it. You're using him. Poor Carlos. He deserves better._

and said, "You know, I prefer _Alice in Wonderland_ imagery when I make fun of someone. If you can get so far into my brain, you'd know that. Rabbit holes, eat me, etc."

"Don't get cute," she said. "I can feel it all. I'm right, and you know it. You're using him. Poor Carlos. He deserves everything we can give him. Not a meddling, sickly little puppy whimpering at the hem of his lab coat."

"Is this supposed to convince me to cooperate with you? Because really it just makes me want to stay in this little bubble you made."

"You can have him back, Cecil. Just stop fucking around and let us fix you."

"I thought he was _bubbling liquids_ with someone else now."

"I can change that." She snapped her fingers. "No problem. He can be all yours again, and it'll be better this time. Your neediness won't get in his way anymore, you won't wake him up in the middle of the night to make sure he still loves you, you won't need him to remember to pick up your prescription for you or look out for your triggers or any of that. You'll finally be self-sufficient, Cecil, one half of a bonded pair, each doing its own part, instead of guilting him into propping you up."

He wanted to pretend it wasn't tempting. He wondered how much she could see into what he was thinking now. She either had a fantastic poker face or she couldn't see at all.

_Or maybe you're not in control here at all. Maybe whatever you think, whatever you want, you don't have any impact at all. You're an ant flipping off the boot that's about to crush it._

She leaned forward, flicked the cigarette, and the little grey ash landed on the tray. 

"You pretend you don't want it a little longer," she said. "And then come find me when you decide you want out."

She stubbed the cigarette out in the foam bagel and left the smell of melting plastic in her wake.

 

The PA crackled--there was a PA? Was that unusual for a ward like this? Maybe using it was, the last time he was in there wasn't--

"Oh. Uh. Hi, boo."

Carlos? Sounding like Carlos. Cecil sat up in bed and stared at the speaker. Hadn't the clock been there before?

"Listen. Um. We don't have a lot of time. I miss you. And. Okay so. Come home, sweetie." And then, slightly muffled. "Right? Yeah, I don't--okay. Cecil, can you hear me? Oh, you have no way of--doesn't matter. I hope you can hear me. Whatever--whatever this is, it's made out of you. So look for home, you can find your way out--how would _you_ see home, actual-Cecil, _my_ Cecil, just find that, and I'll see you soon, _at home_ and--and I--"

A deafening squeal and crackling static, so loud Cecil nearly fell out of bed. Awake, suddenly alert, heart pounding. And he'd been having such a nice dream--a strange one, but even if it was strange it was nice to hear Carlos' voice. 

He'd come back. Or Cecil would get out soon and everything would be--fine. They'd be fine together again, just like they'd always been. 

"What the hell was--"

He stopped. The other bed was empty. Not just empty but stripped. Of course, he'd never had a roommate. 

His dreams were getting more vivid, more realistic. _Gotta get out of here,_ he thought, _or I'm going to go crazy._

 

He wasn't looking for exits. That would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? Definitely unstable behavior. Carlos finally came to visit again, and he seemed disinterested; Cecil referenced finding a way home and was met with a blank stare.

"Don't do it," he said finally. "Cecil. It's been--weeks. You're not getting better. I don't want to have to tell the doctor you're a flight risk."

"I'm not--Carlos, I was speaking--metaphorically. About--about getting well enough to get released. Of course." He laughed, and it sounded forced, but Carlos was too concerned to notice. "Don't be silly, bunny."

"Right. Okay. Sorry to be paranoid, bunny." Carlos reached for his hand. Cecil hoped he wouldn't notice how his were sweating.

 

He wasn't trying to escape. Of course he didn't doubt Carlos

_who has literally never called me bunny, what the hell_

and okay, maybe things were a little. Unreal right now. But that's what the meds were for, right? They'd get the balance right.

The pink capsule was gone. Maybe that's why things were off balance; they'd been helping him sleep, confining the worst of his paranoia to the odd dreams. Maybe they'd find something better. Maybe they'd finally be able to fix him, damnit. 

He'd doubted everything, all his life. Nothing but questions, especially when things started moving fast and loud and out of his control. He was aware that it was part of the illness. He'd learned to live with it, understood how it worked, and tried to find people who could offer their reassurance and didn't get angry when he needed it. 

He took his meds and he went to work and he--

The getting home thing, that was just a weird little distraction, now. It didn't mean anything. He was the kind of person who could see a weapon in any room, and he had the Improvised Self Defense scout badge to prove it. 

So really this was much less maladaptive. It was a shame he couldn't tell the doctors. They'd gotten to a point where every move he made was pathologized, symptomatic in one way or another.

Whatever. His fourteen days was almost up, then they'd need a court order to hold him longer than that. He knew his rights.

 

"Look, man, shave or don't, I really don't care. I just need to move on with my day."

"Maureen, right?" Her little badge always seemed to hang backwards on the lanyard. "You're an intern?"

She clapped, twice, quick and sarcastic. "Yay, you finally noticed! Maybe now you'll sign off on those credits!"

"What?" 

"Oh my god." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Will you please just shave sometime before lunch. That'd be great. Leading an army of cats," she muttered under her breath.

 

There were no books, there was nowhere to do any research. What the hell was a night veil? He turned the words over and over in his head, felt how they rolled off his tongue in quiet moments when no one was around. Was it, like, one of those blackout curtains? Maybe the little cage veils distraught widows always had in old noir films?

The words stuck in his head. Kind of like an intrusive thought, but not distressing. Maybe like a shield. When he worried that he'd lose his job at the ( _newspaper?_ ), or couldn't shake a weird little impulse he would _never_ act on. It was protective, somehow, and if the only importance it had was filling up the mental space actual intrusive thoughts liked to occupy, well, that was good enough for him.

Maybe that's what it was. Something internal, just his. A little dark curtain between the parts that were really _Cecil_ and everything outside of that, everything he couldn't control, that might always be there but weren't his, weren't part of him. The parts that said _shove that pencil in your eye_ or _hey how much you want to bet that everyone in your life would be happier if you were dead?_

It was imperfect, but it was familiar, and his, and about as safe as anything could be.

That barrier, between dangerous and safe, was that what home was--

_No, you idiot. Home isn't an image, it's a place, it's a little apartment where your boyfriend--the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, if you care to recall--is getting real tired of your shit, and he certainly isn't telling you to look for it in your dreams. Be cooperative. Get released. And go home._

He pushed the thought away, back over the border of the dark veil.

 

"Listen to me you little shit."

Lauren leaned forward over the table, pointed aggressively at Cecil. "I know _exactly_ what you're doing. I bet you think you have control of the situation, don't you? Sorry to disappoint." She leaned back, produced a pristine white cigarette box from nowhere Cecil could see. "Cute little logic puzzle though, the whole ‘veil’ thing."

She flicked a lighter, once, twice, and it sparked uselessly without igniting. 

"Do you like intrusive thoughts? Like, is that something you want more of? Worse? I've poked around some of things that pop into your head, Cecil, and let me tell you, you're a fucking weirdo. Some kind of psychopath or something, you're sick."

"That's not me." He was sitting still and straight and stiff, like a puppet. It felt unnatural. Slowly, uncertainly, he let himself sink forward into the slump he'd adapted to, after a couple decades or more hunching over a microphone. 

"Really? Do you think you're special or something, that you're not your thoughts?"

"No one is. Thoughts are--" He tried to remember, the first therapist who he got on with. Joe? No, Joel. That was it. "They're just brain events. Everyone, at some point in their lives, will cross a bridge and suddenly imagine jumping off. It doesn't mean they want to, or ever would, or that they like the idea."

"But the things you've thought of--"

"That I've seen. It's not anything I generated, they weren't daydreams, they barely count as thoughts." He smiled. "That's what you were counting on, wasn't it? That I would hate myself for this."

"Cecil. Honey. You _do_ hate yourself for this."

"No. I sometimes feel like that, like I hate myself _because_ of this. It's part of the depression, and all the shame stuff gets pretty intense, and intrusive thoughts don't help anything, but hey. It's not because I'm inherently unlikable. And you're not the first person who thought they can control me with it." 

"You can pretend you've made peace with what you are, but I know better, I have seen it. I see what a sad and broken and sick little thing you are and I want to help you, and if you cut the Noble Crazy act you'll see that you really want me to help you. We'll scrub you out all clean and shiny, none of that _filth_ left in you."

"Huh. Yeah." He leaned back in his chair, crossed his ankle over his knee. Her words stung more than he'd expected them to. _Filth._ But he wasn't going to let her see that. "I guess I do try to pretend I don't." He smiled, and shrugged, like it was just another little thought exercise, like it wasn't his life they were debating. "I often think I hate myself for this. Like, if I were a better person I could control it, I mean, what kind of person can't control their _moods_? First thing you learn as a kid: control yourself. But that's all externally imposed. It's static, noise, it doesn't matter. I can't stop myself being sick any more than you can stop thinking about pink elephants right now."

"Don't get cute with me--"

"Stop thinking about it. No thinking about pink elephants."

"Would you just--"

"Lauren. Honey," he said, mocking her tone. "You must really like pink elephants if you can't stop thinking about them. What's your weird obsession with elephants? Are you broken now too?" He smiled darkly. "Or are your thoughts less in control than you’d like them to be?"

“What are you talking about, this is _ridiculous_ \--”

"This is how I win, Lauren. I've been dealing with this for years. I've learned to be careful, pick apart every idea and impulse, look for the holes, the triggers, the symptoms. I can cope with this. You've never even had to try."

He stood up, pushed his plastic chair in, stumbled a bit over his untied laces. 

 

It would have been tidier, somehow, if he'd been able to sign this awkward dream self out of the fake hospital. It also would have been nice if home had been close by, the neat little house with the lawn whistling softly against the night breeze. 

But Carlos was parked at the curb, leaning on the door of his little hybrid, smiling his little smile-- _his_ smile. 

"You look so little in these jammies," he said, and he sounded a bit sad, but mostly just relieved. 

"No matter what size you are, they never seem to fit," Cecil said. 

"Are you okay?"

"I'm

 

"--fine--"

Cecil fell out of bed. This was not his room--not the room on the ward, but this was a hospital alright, it smelled like sulfur and rubbing alcohol and just a bit like toast, and he was on his feet in a second, snapping the tongue depressor in half and holding the pieces out in front of himself. Lauren Mallard was about to get herself some very nasty splinters--

"Oh." 

He lowered the split wood. This was--familiar. This was Night Vale General, and if he was here things were very serious indeed, but they were a normal kind of serious, a manageable serious. 

He wanted to say something important, or perhaps sarcastic, an indication that all was well, now, that things would go back to normal, or perhaps summon the weather long enough to sit down somewhere and have a good cry and a minute to himself to think. Instead, he said, "What the _fuck_ just happened to me?"

 

Apparently there had been some kind of chemical landmine left behind when Strex controlled the station, and someone had triggered it when they were futzing around in one of the empty broadcasting booths, and someone else had tracked it all over the station in their delirious haze, and that's about when Cecil stopped paying attention; frankly he was just glad he wasn't responsible for it this time. He'd been in the bathroom at the time, feeding treats to Khoshekh's kittens and scratching under his bony chin.

Khoshekh was unaffected, thankfully. If anything, he had apparently seemed annoyed that Cecil had passed out before he got any of the treats.

Apparently Cecil had been under the influence the longest. He had the most memory to get through, room for the drugs to build a big and elaborate structure. If anyone from Strexcorp had actually been controlling the hallucinations, they said, they probably would have broken him. 

He was struck by the urge to say something clever again, when he and Carlos finally got home, when the last of the chemicals had left his system. _I never want to look at another hard boiled egg as long as I live_ , or something like that, something tidy, some verbal indication that it was all over now. Instead he curled up on the sofa and let Carlos comb fingers through his hair. He dozed in and out of the old episodes of Good Eats until Carlos woke him up for his night meds.


End file.
